Cover to Cover
by Jentle55
Summary: Roxanne takes time to reflect on all her years married to Megamind, and the unique side of her blue-skinned beau that only she sees


**Notes: **Recent little one-shot I wrote as I reflected on my own marriage with my hubby while at a wedding. I ended up writing out my thoughts from Roxanne's perspective, highlighting some of the things that only she knows about our favourite villain turned hero. Hope you enjoy!

**Warnings:** None. Except for its epic mushy fluffiness. And I guess some mild references to sexual situations.  
><strong><br>**Disclaimer:**** 'Megamind' and all its characters are owned by _Dreamworks. _I own nothing.

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><p>When Roxanne had been young, with more energy in her body and mind, and a soul that wasn't jaded by a lifetime of living, she had wanted to write a book. About what, she wasn't sure. But she had been idealistic, passionate, and filled with ideas about the way the world should be. The ways she would improve existence all over the globe. The way her words would bond people together, open their eyes and set ingenuity in motion. She wanted to inspire. To awaken the senses. She wanted to share her knowledge and perspective with anyone willing to read it.<p>

Now, the only thing she could think to write about was how time went by in a blink and there simply wasn't enough hours in the day, or days in the year to do everything she'd dreamed. And at her age, there wasn't enough coffee in the world to keep her sitting at a computer screen long enough to answer the seemingly endless line of emails awaiting her every day and night without fail, let alone write a book. Not to mention the idea of sitting in a chair for that long made her hips and back complain at just the thought.

What had happened to her? When did she become so old? When had the thought of expressing her ideas on paper lost a battle of motivation to a quiet evening at home? That was her idea of a good time; not a night out on the town in heels and a killer dress. Not even the fame and fortune that would come from being a best-selling author. Just a night in the safety of her own house, in the quiet stillness of a contented life. One night, where the phone didn't ring, there wasn't a knock on the door, and the house settled on its foundation comfortably. A night where she could lay in her aged pink house coat with the pleasant company of her partner, and enjoy the evening news before a prompt trip to bed at 10:30 PM. That was an evening that made her toes curl in delight.

When had she become her mother?

Probably somewhere along the road between being the idealistic college-girl with goals of grandeur, of being a published author and a News Anchor on a top network, and where she was now – retired from said News Anchor job and current editor and chief of the Metro City Herald, with considerable positions on various boards across the city for charitable agencies, plenty of sway in local politics, and lots more years added to her age.

Roxanne was happy, even if she did see crow's feet around her eyes, some extra wrinkles along her brow and laugh lines she hadn't remembered framing her smile ten years previous. And nothing to say of the dismay she often felt when she'd brave a step onto the scale in the bathroom. But, in retrospect, all the lines, weight, and the ache in her bones came from years of life lived, and a life well loved.

The crow's feet were from years of warm sun and pleasant days, the wrinkles from a brow creased in worry over her loved ones, who were many and frequent. The brackets around her smile were from hours spent laughing, smiling and kissing. And those extra pounds attached to her wide hips were from being well fed, enjoying every delicious bite of food cooked for her, and by her, shared in the presence of friends. Those same friends surrounded her now, and she knew after tonight's festivities, she'd have even bigger laugh lines, and another hour on a treadmill waiting for her later at the gym to compensate for a full stomach and the pleasant softening of her sense from a glass of champagne in her hand.

Weddings always left her sentimental. Even as her feet ached in her heels, and Roxanne felt self-conscious about the tightness of her dress, she couldn't help but grin and take in the sights around herself. This would be an event to remember, and it left her feeling pleasant, emotional, and happy.

The expensive golf club's main dining room was filled with the sound of music, lights sparkling off of tall glasses, gleaming silverware, and tall centerpieces of blooming flowers in crystal vases. The air was punctuated with the thumping beat from the dance floor and brilliant flashes of light came not just from the strobing decorations around the DJ's table, but from cameras clicking and snapping memories to be cherished forever all around her. The elegant affair had been done right; every last detail turning the massive room into a dream of glitter and romance, from the soft lighting of candles on the dozens of tables for the massive brood of guests, to the tasteful swathes of fabric hanging from the walls and ceilings, creating a canopy of colour to match the flowers perfuming the air. Staff in crisp black and white tuxedos passed out drinks and late-night refreshments to guests in formal attire, local politicians and celebrities rubbing elbows with family members and friends. The large dance floor at the center of the room hosted couples in warm embraces, swaying to the slow melody while Michael Buble's voice crooned out another classic with velvety smoothness through the speakers.

She was content to rest at the table for the time being, catching sight of the newly wedded couple, the elegant white dress of the bride turning the normally mousy, shy girl into a stunning vision of beauty in the subdued light of the reception. Her fiancée – no, husband – looked as shell shocked as any man would be, grinning like a fool with a drink in one hand, the other placed firmly on his love's lower back.

The Warden's daughter. Now a married woman. No longer a Woodbridge, like her father, dear little Rachael was officially a Smith. And the father of the bride looked proud, but emotional. And based on the way he shook hands with his new son-in-law, and the nearly terrified wince the boy gave in response to the squeeze of that iron hand, he was still trying to scare the kid straight. Roxanne always imagined James Woodbridge would be the kind of father who hummed 'Cleaning This Gun' whenever his little girl brought home a potential suitor. But all that bravado melted when his daughter stood on tip-toes to peck him on the cheek, his moustache curving with the magnitude of his smile. For all his years as the hardened ruler of the Metro City Prison for the Criminally Gifted, he was still a doting father. He'd be retiring this year, and Roxanne was glad to see his family would be growing to keep him busy in that time. Rumour had it that Rachael was just a few weeks pregnant as well. James would have his hands full if she was going to give him a grandchild in the next nine months.

Roxanne had been delighted to receive an invitation to the wedding from the young couple and their family. She had always liked the Woodbridge's, and had met Mr. Smith Senior in the past as well, through her work with the local Hospitals. He was the head of Cardiology at Metro City Central, last she had checked.

Being influential in the community had one thing to do with the invite, through her seat on the Board for the Hospital, but her personal connections also made the invite from the doting father-of-the-bride expected.

He'd practically raised Roxanne's husband since he was a child. It was only right he would be treated like family as well and invited to the soiree.

And said individual was at that moment trying to mingle with other party guests to the best of his abilities, which had improved drastically, but even after all these years, he often sent her that panicked look across the room that screamed for her aid. Right now though, his vivid eyes were concentrated on the trio of Bridesmaids in front of him while he bobbed his head in a rapid nod, a brilliant if not forced grin plastered on his face. Uncomfortable, but still persevering. Roxanne watched as he motioned elaborately with his thin hands at one point, the move elegant by still excited and the girls erupted in a chorus of giggles that managed to be heard over the din of the music and conversation surrounding them. He beamed with pride, glanced her way out of instinct and quickly flashed her a double thumbs-up, his blue face split with his trade-mark manic smile.

She smiled back at her husband of eighteen years, returning the sign in an amused way, shaking her head. While Roxanne had aged, wrinkled and in her opinion fattened, he had somehow battled time itself and won. He looked the same as he had on the first day she met him. And he acted the same too.

He was still Megamind. Only now, he was much less evil, far more heroic, and seasoned with more wisdom and knowledge than she ever thought possible. How he could continue to cram his still giant head full of even more facts and figures was a mystery to her. While her memory felt like it was drifting away out the window, his only seemed to get better.

If there was any subject she should probably write a book about, it would be the enigma of a man standing across the party from her now. He was something else. Everyone knew that already, sure. You took one look at his brilliant blue skin, the high arch of his head, the slender shape of his body, or the neon green of his eyes and you were acutely aware of his differences. His intellect, energy, and penchant for getting in and out of dangerous and life-threatening situations was probably another tip off that he wasn't your standard run-of-the-mill citizen. He didn't have to say he was different. He acted it. He looked it. But God, did he ever work it.

Even in the crowded wedding, he was a celebrity. He could hardly cross the room without shaking hands, receiving accolades, chatting and smiling and working the room. One boisterous guest with a beer in hand slapped him heartily on the back with a fist like a ham hock, but Megamind staggered only briefly and managed not to spill his drink on a woman seated at the table beside him. He took it all in stride, smiled, nodded in acknowledgement, and only made a rude face when the man had his back turned.

This was not the way he would have reacted years ago, back when he was considered a villain. Oh no, he would have dehydrated half the guests in the hall, leapt on a table and then yelled out an elaborate monologue about his wicked, nefarious wrong-doings to incite fear and chaos. Although she knew the modified gun was still tucked into the waist band holster of his fitted black tux, it was there now to protect, not terrorize. Megamind was a hero, and he acted as if he had never been evil a day in his life.

And the crowds acted the same way too. This made his integration into society as a local celebrity that much easier as his misdeeds were forgotten in lieu of a new life of law, justice, and saving the day.

Eventually, he made his way through the throngs of guests to the bride and her family, warmly embracing the girl as if he had known her his entire life. The stark contrast of blue hands on white lace made Roxanne smile, recalling their own moments such as these nearly twenty years past. Handshakes were had by the groom and the hero, as words were exchanged, no doubt congratulations. Megamind was gesturing to the hall with his excited hands again, twirling around as if to encompass the whole building with a brilliant grin on his face. The bride and groom looked pleased and proud, Rachael ducking her head in her shy manner. But Megamind would have none of it and continued to rant enthusiastically, pointing things out, flailing his arms around dramatically to punctuate his discussion.

Roxanne could imagine the conversation; he would be talking about the hall, how gorgeous it was, how proud they must be for all they did to prepare. And he knew something about preparation, so the comments shouldn't be taken lightly. He'd be pointing out every last detail that other guests wouldn't have noticed. Because he did that. He noticed. And he'd learned that it pleased people to hear his observations, just as it pleased him when someone took a shine to a new invention he had created. The bride looked almost close to tears and clutched him in a fierce embrace which he tried to avoid, but eventually just awkwardly patted her back in a consoling manner, despite the fact she was just happy for his compliments. He didn't seem capable of differentiating happy tears from sad ones.

Roxanne could read his lips as he woodenly repeated the line she had taught him when encountering an emotional woman. 'There there. It's alright.'

Freed from her arms, the Warden moved in for a firm handshake with the ex-convict, and both grinned at each other with something akin to a dark glare. A hint of evil flickered across Megamind's expression, like it was a habit to act that way around the aged man. Then it was gone in a flash, the smile losing its hard edge and turning genuine, both men laughing as if about some private joke only they understood and pulled one another close for a pat on the back each, hands still clasped between them.

From her vantage point, watching her husband interact with others, Roxanne had the luxury of observing him quietly. What a contradiction he was. All at once the same criminal who had fought against justice, and now the hero who worked to enforce it.

To the outside world, and everyone at this party except herself, Megamind was some theatrical show for them all to watch. His life read like a movie, or a bad novel. A tortured soul, an orphaned child turned to a life of crime, and then a reformed villain turned good. His biography was filled with flashing lights, explosions, and dramatic banter between good and evil. He had the suits, spikes and capes to back it up. He was a comic book come to life. You couldn't interact with him for more than a minute without realizing how flamboyant he was about life. Everything he did, he did with flair, grand gestures, lengthy ranting speeches, and arm movements that had people stepping back to give him room. He filled a room with his presence, and he held court like a royal, all eyes drawn to him even if he didn't already have the appearance to beg such attention.

He was all about presentation.

But that's what it was. A facade. An outward performance put on for the world to see, to keep them distracted. Like a magician, he flashed off fireworks with one hand, keeping the eyes drawn away from the other that did the real work. He had his acting in the public, that flashy dazzling display to blind and confuse, and then there was the personal side, that lacked the posturing and preening but could still set off some fireworks, at least for her.

It would disappoint many to know, but beneath it all, Megamind was normal. Sometimes tedious, even a little boring on occasion. He could be quiet and withdrawn just as often as he was boisterous and in your face. For all his bluster, there were also moments of extreme calm and monotony. And just like everyone else in the world, he tried to lead as normal a life as he could; wanting the same things we all want, doing the same things we all do. He just sometimes did them a little differently.

Yes, if Roxanne could write a book, she'd write about him. About the boring side. That side that lacked the strobe lights and rock music, the laser shows and the flowing capes. She'd write about HER Megamind.

Roxanne would fill pages of a book with observations about her husband, the things he did, the way he did them, and the little idiosyncrasies she'd learned to love, hate or simply deal with in their many years of marriage. About how he'd come home like any man might after a long day and collapse on their worn couch, murmuring about a need for dinner, a beer and a shower. Then, he'd promptly fall asleep where he lay. How he'd spend hours on that same couch, if he could, watching TV or movies, ranging from car programs like Top Gear, to cartoons like Family Guy. She'd write about his love for action movies, with loud explosion, scientifically unrealistic car stunts, hot women and gritty men with guns. She'd write about just how many times she'd had to sit through the Fast and the Furious, or Die Hard series, feeling him elbow her excitedly while pointing out a particularly extravagant explosion. She could publish a couple books at least on the subject of his obsession with video games, and the hours he would spend hunched over his keyboard, face illuminated by the glow of his computer screen while he manoeuvred his way through war-torn countries in first-person shooters. One of those books would simply be titled "Why Call of Duty Made Me Hate the Words 'UAV is Online'."

Another set of books would be about his difficulty with ever turning his socks or under garments right side out, and about his belief that any and all forms of gas, be it flatulent or not, was hilarious and he didn't know why she would think otherwise. She could make several pages of good reading material on the fact that when he ate too much food, he would suddenly get a chill up his spine, and eating past said point resulted in an upset stomach and indigestion. And that the only way to counteract the 'full shiver', was to burp very shortly afterward, and how this odd ritual of shivering and burping and trying desperately to shove more food into his mouth if a plate was still half full had led to more than one awkward dinner conversation with guests. She could type up several thousand words about his staunch belief that the only good music was rock music; about the way he'd gag if anything Bieber-related hit his ears, but guiltily couldn't stop dancing to Party Rock Anthem and Calabria 2007, and had been caught humming Minnie Riperton on multiple occasions. Observations about his lack of self-control when it came to grocery shopping could be its own chapter, filled with anecdotes where Roxanne found items in the cart she had never put there, with him bashfully grinning, a hopeful gleam in his eyes for chocolate pudding cups, or several packets of Mr. Noodles. She would challenge any mother that living with a certain blue hero was far worse than a needy toddler in a super market line-up, pleading for an extra piece of candy, or powdered donuts in his case.

She could make a book series on the odd things he loved; the scent of drier sheets, the bed sheets being tucked tight like a hospital at the foot of the bed, white freezies, Amy Adams, Renaissance art and architecture, the way Jeremy Clarkson says the word 'Jag', the song "We Both Reached For the Gun" from the Chicago soundtrack, stand up comedy by Dane Cook, Ron White and Bobcat Goldthwait, Jack o' lanterns and Christmas lights, games like Portal and Bioshock, his delight in showing her internet videos including hip-hop dancing hamsters or Epic Meal Time, 1:24 scale models of classic cars, minimalist decorating, and using movie and TV show quotes to punctuate any and all of his casual discussions.

She'd write about how he had an aversion to certain textures of food. Tomatoes were forbidden in their house hold, and any kind of squash got the cold shoulder. How he could be thrown off an entire meal by the mere feel of gristle or fat on meat. How he would rush out of a room at the sight of raw poultry, shuddering in disgust. Minion had made the mistake of not warning him about the presence of an uncooked turkey on the kitchen counter once, and the resulting Thanksgiving feast had been absent one blue skinned genius.

She'd write about how he slept on his stomach, always drooling out of one side of his mouth, but would flip onto his right side a half hour before the alarm every morning without consciously thinking about it. He also had a great fondness for the Snooze button, and would hit it at least a half dozen times before actually getting up, giving her the great annoyance of hearing snippets of the radio playing rock songs from 6:15 until 7:00. And she could tell the instant he fell asleep every night, because he would make one definitive grunting noise at that very moment, in the dark of their bedroom. It had taken her weeks of responding groggily to the noise, effectively waking him up as well, before she realized he was not in fact trying to get her attention with the sound.

Half the tome could be filled with ways he grated on her nerves, despite how much she adored him. Things like the way he would crack his knuckles before starting in on a project, the way he would explain mechanical things to her like she was an infant, how he was essentially tone deaf when it came to his own singing voice, and the way he made fun of how she chewed her food and called her a chipmunk. She loathed his habit of making coffee in the mornings, on the days he was up before her, never leaving enough of the aromatic beverage for her beyond a scant quarter cup sitting in the carafe. She hated how whenever she would attempt to whisper something to him privately, he would turn and loudly ask her what she had said, thus drawing all eyes to them while he seemed oblivious to the faux pas. Her hackles rose whenever she expected a genuine apology from him for some wrong doing, and the snorted 'Well, I'm sorry!' would come out with an angry, frustrated lilt to it, making it seem like an inconvenience thus destroying any sincerity he might have had. She despised when she would purchase some sort of snack, or treat for herself to hide away for a rainy day, only to find him feasting on it a day later, or find only the empty package as evidence of his crime the next week. She hated his puns, his word play, his ability to twist anything she said into something vaguely offensive, childish or suitable for heroic banter, and the way he would then laugh with delight over his own cleverness. It was especially annoying when she was trying to carry on a serious conversation with him.

Roxanne couldn't stand the way he snored when over tired, or after he had drank a beer. She hated that if he didn't eat on a schedule, he would complain about feeling unwell for a full day, yet did very little to protect himself against that. She hated that, for all his intelligence and wit, he often didn't think about the words that flew past his lips and would then bitterly complain that everyone else was the idiot, reading too far into words that didn't matter. She wanted to tear her hair out every time he gave her ten minutes notice for something they needed to go out and do, and then would complain when she wasn't ready fast enough. She especially hated when they would take two separate vehicles to some location, and she was meant to follow him, and he would already be half way down the block before she could even do up her seatbelt. Or worse yet, he would forget she was following him all together, and the car would suddenly just disappear from the road in front of her as if by magic. She couldn't count the number of times she'd had to pull over, angrily typing in his cell phone number just to scream at him for using his invisibility mode.

She hated how he was sometimes obtuse to the point of being blind when it came to things like romance, reading her signals, or even thinking ahead for events like anniversaries, or holidays. She'd get a gift, sure. But the receipt would be from the day before, and he'd rant about how difficult she was to buy for. Despite her sometimes blatant hints and tips, like post-it notes on his work table, pointing things out while shopping, or just telling him point-blank to go and pick up this item, which is at this store, and it had already been charged to his credit card and was on hold for him at the counter.

He was stubborn and controlling, for another thing, and always seemed to have a place for everything, and a way for completing every task. Any and all other options were wrong. She had struggled with this above all else, because a new rule seemed to pop up every time she tried to accomplish any chore. The Tupperware had to be stacked a certain way in the kitchen. He would re-wash dishes, and re-arrange the dishwasher trays behind her back. The bedside tables were to have a certain amount of objects on them, and no more than said number (which he noted he had increased for her benefit). The remotes needed to be carefully placed in the basket beside the couch. The kitchen table was set just so. The bathroom, clean and clutter free. And his things were not to be touched. There was an order to them. A precise and calculated master plan that if disturbed, could lead to dire consequences. It was never done with any malice, nor any sort of domineering cruelty toward her person. In fact, he had often cowered with shame as he revealed his needs and wants in terms of organization, awkwardly fixing things in her wake to his liking, stammering about whether it was alright to ask for things to be kept as they were. She attributed it to years of being alone, of needing to claim his space lest it be snatched from his grasp, perhaps with a sprinkling of something akin to OCD. It was all very functional and productive in its nature, so she had allowed it grudgingly, and he accepted that she had a right to her own ways as well, never saying a word about her catastrophe of a desk with papers piled high, and only cringing briefly when she left clothing laying in a messy heap on the floor.

But despite all the ways he set her nerves on edge, even more pages of the book would be filled with his devotion to catering to her every whim. Of hours spent fixing her computers, changing light bulbs, building furniture from boxes, changing the oil on her car, and taking out the garbage. He fixed loose floor boards, put away dishes, stopped leaky faucets, investigated noises in the night, somehow reached tall shelves despite his height being equal to hers, and killed spee-iders (the name having stuck after years of use). He performed late night shopping trips to the pharmacy, picked up chocolate and her favourite bag of potato chips once a month, grudgingly gave foot massages when she plopped them on his lap with a pleading look, and sat through romantic comedies on Saturday nights. He wrote scrawled love notes on post-its, and shoved them under the closed door of the bathroom while she showered. He purchased her favourite kind of yoghurt, even if he thought the containers weren't 'structurally as sound as other brands'. He listened to her music in the car, gave her his drink if she asked for it, and let her control the thermostat even if it killed him to give up such an ancient male right. He went to parties he didn't want to, with people he didn't like, and had brunch with other couples he'd never met before. He ate her food when it tasted bad. He stayed awake to drive late at night when she was too tired to keep her eyes open. He lifted the heavy things, fixed what was broken, did the dirty jobs, and still left to save the day for everyone else in the city as well. And every night, when he collapsed onto their bed exhausted, he'd still turn his head, smile that smile and somehow find enough energy left for her. To ask her about her day. To kiss her in greeting. To hold her when she was upset. He never said no.

Roxanne would write about how beneath it all, beyond the smoke and mirrors, he was painfully shy to the point of phobia. There was never a doubt in her mind that her husband was faithful to her, even despite the women that seemed to fawn over his status as a hero. They threw themselves at him, and he balked in fear at their attention. There was barely a way the man could make conversation with another woman without looking panicked, let alone develop an elaborate affair behind Roxanne's back. There were days he hardly seemed to know what to do with her, let alone someone new. He often remarked that their union was based on Destiny and not any form of skill on his behalf. She believed him. And yet, once he was sure that they were together, well and truly devoted to one another, he poured every ounce of his being into ensuring they stayed that way. Never had she been with someone so passionate and possessive about the subject of love as him. He was private about it, true. Resigned and polite in terms of public displays, especially as the years had progressed. The occasional hug, hands held together, a peck on the cheek, a chaste kiss to the lips out of the line of sight, and the boldest of all was moments where he'd make room for her to sit on his lap if no other chair was present. He insisted, in the beginning, that much of it was to protect her public image, as well as his own. But it became clear that he had a certain amount of propriety when it came to airing his dirty laundry to the masses, not just for their publicity's sake. But she let him continue to use the same excuses. A hero needed to be respectable, he'd told her wisely. They needed to be like a Presidential couple; loving, yet family friendly and conservative.

But once the doors were closed, the public had no idea about the sometimes insatiable appetite he seemed to have. Like years of starvation made him hungry and appreciative of every morsel he could find. Sometimes, it was predictable. A seductive outfit would make his eyes watch her hungrily. A well said insinuation or sultry comment made his lips quirk in a knowing grin. Or, when she was more brazen, an unmistakeable touch or rough kiss would make him snap to attention quickly enough. But sometimes it came out of the blue, and shocked her with its fierceness. She could be doing the most innocuous of tasks; arms elbow deep in soapy water at the sink, bending down to pick up a fallen piece of paper, buttoning her blouse in the morning before work, lounging around the house without makeup in faded pyjama pants and a tank top. And there he'd be, behind her, in front of her, eyes dark and half lidded, his face a mask of intensity.

It wasn't always spectacular, or mind blowing. She wasn't always prepared for the activity, and he didn't always rise to the occasion either. There were days they would lay in the dark of night, fumblingly planting kisses on each other, before one, or both of them would fall asleep mid-embrace. They had dry spells, hot months, and days they were too angry to even sleep in the same bed together. Sometimes she couldn't quite tell what the heck he was trying to accomplish down there, and he'd become exasperated by her lack of response, glaring at her with hurt pride. Then they'd laugh about it, switch back to something old, but faithful and be comforted that even if their sex life sometimes felt vanilla, it was still a fine flavour to enjoy night after night. There was still love in everything they did. And when they were able to join together and feel that passion in every fibre of their beings, he had a certain way of moving, touching and loving her that left her breathless. She could write about that. Oh how she could write about that.

But for all his finesse in the bedroom (or sometimes lack thereof), she'd need to set aside an entire chapter of that book to detail how entirely inept he was at addressing emotions. He was without question, a loving and devoted husband, but for all his vast knowledge about the human psyche, when faced with an emotional woman, he was the worst. She recalled ruefully the hundreds of times he had managed to make her more upset than she had started when she sought comfort in his arms. He would seem so confused, dark eyebrows drawing down as he stared at her tear soaked face while she regaled him with tales of woe. He would immediately outline how to fix the problem and let her know in no uncertain terms that he found it silly for her to be so upset over something so easily rectified. And he had seemed entirely miffed when she became angry and frustrated by this response, wondering out loud why she would even ask him for help in the first place, if she was going to be so difficult about it, all the while throwing his arms in the air and storming around. She worked for years to finally explain to him, that she didn't need the problem fixed, and merely needed his support and acknowledgement that she had a right to feel upset. After eighteen years of marriage, he sometimes still fell back into his need to fix things, offer solutions and tell others what to do. But always, he would suddenly snap his mouth shut, mid-lecture, then firmly grasp her by the shoulders.

'I'm sorry that happened to you. You must be upset. You have every right to feel that way,' he would say in a voice much like a programmed robot, before enveloping her in a hug, patting her hair mechanically. 'There there, it's alright'. Every time. The exact same words. The exact same blank stare. The exact same voice like a recorded message. And every time, through her tears, his awkwardness never failed to make her laugh and they would dissolve into giggles until her pain subsided and she was smiling again.

She smiled now, shaken from her thoughts by the chair that shifted beside her as the man in question flopped down onto the seat with a heaving sigh. He kicked his long thin legs out in front of them, his shined dress shoes gleaming in the candlelight.

"What are you smiling about?" he asked with a tired grin of his own, thin blue fingers working at the tie around his slender neck to loosen it eagerly, an expression of pleasure stealing across his face.

"Just thinking."

"'Bout?" he asked, eyeing her over the rim of his glass, taking a short swig of an amber beer with one hand, while the other adjusted the now slack tie out of his way, fumbling with the top two buttons of his collar.

"You," she replied, joining him to take a sip of champagne from her nearby glass, the bubbles tickling her tongue while she stared out over the couples spinning slowly on the dance floor hand in hand.

He gave a snort to her side, setting down his beer to nervously glance around himself, playing with his tie once more, now out of anxiety.

"Me? Good things about me? Bad things? What did I do this time?" he whined unsurely, a frown dimpling his sharp chin.

"Nothing bad, M. Relax," she laughed, setting a stilling hand on his arm. "Being at a wedding just makes me think about us."

"Oh. It reminds me of that too. I just hope they have a less eventful day than we did!" he laughed boisterously, visibly relaxing.

She chuckled at the memory as well, taking his hand in hers while recalling her rude awakening the day of their own wedding. Or rather a half hour before their ceremony in front of nearly three hundred guests, when she awoken to find she had been kidnapped by a neighbouring villain. Suffice to say, her fiancée had been most displeased at the 'flagrant abuse of the unwritten Villain code', as he had called it while untying her bonds mere moments after shooting the would-be kidnapper point blank with his Dehydration gun. They had made the ceremony, an hour behind schedule, and their wedding photos hosted Roxanne with red rope burn around her wrists and a dress dirtied from debris.

"I'm sure things will keep going smoothly. It was a beautiful ceremony, don't you think?" she continued in the current day, and her husband nodded, tapping his foot along to Meatloaf's _Paradise by the Dashboard Light_as the reception hall was filled with people dancing and singing to the rock classic with the help of alcohol smoothing out their inhibitions.

"Yes, quite nice. Long. I don't remember ours being so long. Was ours that long? The pastor rivals some villains for his extensive diatribes. Blah blah blah blah blah! God this, God that, Dearly beloved... So clichéd!" he ranted, swinging his arms dramatically back and forth as he spoke, eyes rolling. Then he paused, thoughtful. "Did I sound like that?"

"You mean did you ever STOP sounding like that?"

He feigned offense, resting his fingers against his chest with an air of dignity about him, glaring down at her over his angular nose.

"I'll have you know that I am a professional, and my bantering skills are the cream of the crop. You don't go about being the best villain and the best hero that Metro City has ever seen without learning a thing or two, Miss Ritchi," he purred proudly, grinning at the nickname that he had never stopped using for her, but the squeeze of his fingers around hers told her he was in a similar mood. Sentimental, foolish, a little playful. He turned his attention back to smiling softly out toward the dance floor while sitting comfortably at her side.

"I was thinking about how I used to want to write a book."

"Used to? No more grand ideas for literary success?"

"I don't have time for it," she quipped. "I'm too busy taking care of you."

"I'm self sufficient. I don't need you fretting over me. Minion does that enough."

"I suppose so."

"What would you write about, if you had the time to put toward this book of yours?" he mused, shrugging out of his suit jacket to hang it over the back of the chair, moving on to undo the buttons of his cuffs, rolling the crisp white shirt up his arms to reveal the slim, sinewy blue skin beneath. It had once been a rare sight to see him without his ever present gloves and body covering synthetic suits, but as the years had moved on, and it became more and more obvious to him that he couldn't remain in hero gear his entire life, he could be seen more often as he was now.

"You. Us. Our life," she smiled, resting her elbows on the table, threading her fingers together and setting her chin atop them to watch his reaction. Predictably, he jerked his head in her direction, green eyes flashing with warning and dread.

"Us?" he squeaked. Then cleared his throat with a cough. "Me? I don't like that idea at all. Surely there are enough books written about me already. I am a pretty big deal."

"Modest too. Don't worry. I was just getting swept up in this whole wedding. No plans for a book signing in the near future. And those other books didn't have a whole lot of truth in them."

"And your book would be 100% factual? That makes me even more nervous," he muttered, hunching up his shoulders, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Hey, don't judge a book by its cover," she replied easily, and he blinked at her for a split second before a slow easy smile slipped across his mouth. Chuckling to himself, he stood and extended a hand to her, and she took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet.

"You, Miss Ritchi," he laughed, pulling her toward the dance floor and into his arms as Keith Urban's _Memories of Us _soothed through the air, "Are a temptress. Always have been, always will be..."

She pressed into his arms, his hand on her lower back, the other holding hers gently as they swayed back and forth. Laying her head against his shoulder, she just smiled to herself and revelled in the prospect of receiving even more wrinkles across her skin from the happiness of these little moments, that if she had the time, she would write about. Not just to remember for all her days but to show him that after all their years together she didn't judge him by his cover, but judged him by his actions, just as she had once said she did for everyone. And with each new chapter she opened up in their life together, she kept turning the pages, kept reading and kept learning something new.

And she loved him, from the first to the very last word.

Even if she couldn't stand how he sang off key into her ear.


End file.
